Dead Men Don't Bite (Jake Dillon Adventure Thriller Series) (27 page)

Francois Cocteau, the restaurant manager appeared
as Dillon, LJ, and the others were re-entering the dining
room. “Monsieur, Levenson-Jones, Monsieur Malakoff has
just arrived, and has asked me to inform you that he would
very much like you all to join him for a drink in the bar.”

The bar adjacent to the dining room was now busy
to capacity with people drinking aperitifs, eating nuts
and stuffed olives from small colourful bowls on each of
the tables. The room was buzzing with conversation and
laughter, and a large group of wealthy Americans dressed in
black dinner suits, and crisp white shirts were just about to
go into dinner as Dillon and the others entered.

“This should prove interesting, if nothing else.”
Dillon said.
LJ laughed out loud, and Malakoff who was seated
with his back to them, talking to Kurt, turned around to
look at them. He stood up and extended his hand urbanely.
“My dear, Levenson-Jones, what a pleasure to see
you.”
“Monsieur Malakoff,” LJ said formally, but with
the warmth of a fridge. “I’ve been looking forward to this
meeting.” He looked across at Kurt, and added disdainfully.
“But, is it really necessary for your pet rottweiler to be
here? I mean couldn’t he go and do some harm to himself
or something?”
The big German looked as if he were about to
lurch forward, and rip out LJ’s throat where he stood, but
Malakoff laughed it off, and said, “Kurt does have that
effect on most people he meets, I fear.”
“He’s a naughty boy.” Dillon shook his head at the
German, in mock admonition. “To my way of thinking dogs
who behave badly should be sent to their kennel, without
dinner.”
Malakoff turned, and said to Kurt in German,
“There is plenty of time to have your say. Now go and sort
out that little problem.”
Kurt looked directly at Dillon, held his gaze for just
a second, and then turned and left.
“Well, I have to say, Malakoff. Such a gesture
deserves a glass of Champagne.” LJ said.
“How quaint you English are.” Malakoff snapped
his fingers, and instantly caught the attention of the barman.
A moment later, he arrived with a bottle of Champagne and
five glasses. “Of course there’s no reason, why one cannot
be civilised, is there?”
“Well, I suppose there’s always hope.” Dillon took a
sip of his Champagne. “Sixty four, Bollinger. An excellent
choice.”
“The hotel has a very fine, and well stocked cellar.”
Malakoff raised his glass. “To you, Levenson-Jones, to the
England cricket team, and the continued success of Ferran &
Cardini International. A company filled with little surprises
around every corner. Not least of those being, Mr Sharp
here. Who, I’m led to believe is one of the best computer
hackers in Europe.”
“How very well informed you are, Malakoff.” LJ
said.
“And you, Mr Chapman, what a colourful character.
Your archaeological exploits in Peru during those early
years after graduation, were to say the least, adventurous.
And a diver, of great skill and experience, as well. I’m
surprised, that someone hasn’t written a bestseller about
your exploits?”
“Who knows, Malakoff? Perhaps one of these days,
someone will, or I may even write my memoirs, and tell it
myself.” Chapman told him.
“Jake Dillon. What can I say, your background is,
to say the least, somewhat lacking in detail. In fact you’re
more like a chameleon, and obviously one of those people
who seem to pop out of the woodwork, when one is least
expecting it.”
“Well, I must say, Malakoff. You have been doing
your homework, haven’t you?” LJ said. “And, although
very impressive. All that it proves is that you must want
whatever is on that U-boat, and very badly too.”
“Let me just say, gentlemen, that what you seek
should be in the cargo area of U-683. The Spear of Destiny
is on board, amongst other things.”
There was a pause, and then it was LJ who said,
“And what are you looking for, Malakoff?”
Malakoff’s face remained impassive. “The spear and
the myth that surrounds it, holds no interest for me, but
there’s gold...”
“And it’s the gold you’re after, right?” Dillon asked,
bluntly.
Malakoff, held Dillon’s gaze, and smiled debonairly
at him. “Guilty as charged, Mr Dillon. I admit I’m nothing
more than a treasure hunter.”
“Really?” LJ commented. “I’d never have mistaken
you for that, Malakoff.”
“Well, that as may be, Levenson-Jones. But, the
simple fact is, that we’re both looking for the same thing.”
“I very much doubt that, Malakoff.” LJ commented.
“The U-boat. My dear, Levenson-Jones. Albeit, you
seek the Spear of Destiny, for the simplest of reasons. You and
your superiors do not want it falling into the wrong hands.
The worse case scenario, would surely be fanatics using the
myth that surrounds the spear, to devastating effect, I’m
sure you would agree with this? Equally as damaging would
be the media who would have a field-day, and neither the
British or the American Governments would be able to do
anything to stop it getting into the public domain. As I say,
we both want the same thing. I, like you, want this whole
affair to remain a well kept secret.”
“The problem is, Malakoff. If there is Nazi gold
bullion on board that submarine, however tempting it may
be, will - I’m afraid - have to be given up to the authorities.”
“Come now,” Malakoff told him. “Is that really
necessary, after all these years?”
“I’d say it was. After all, that gold bullion represents
Hitler’s ill-gotten gains. Amassed from the suffering and
slaughter of many millions of innocent people throughout
Europe.” LJ stated.
“And your point is, Levenson-Jones?” Malakoff
asked, raising his left eyebrow.
“My point is, Malakoff. That it doesn’t belong to
any of us.”
“But, it’s not only the gold that you’re after, is it,
Malakoff,” Dillon said with rancour. “Is there something
else hidden on that U-boat or inside the cavern. Something,
from your past, perhaps? Otherwise why would you be
going to so much trouble to find that sub?”
“My dear, Mr Dillon. What an overactive imagination
you have. But, you’re entitled to your opinion.” Malakoff
got up out of his seat. “I thought that we might be able to
work together. But, I fear that is not going to be possible.
No matter, I have my own divers, and an array of extremely
sophisticated equipment on board the Solitaire.”
“You’ll soon discover, Malakoff. That ‘finding’ isn’t
enough. Because, once you’ve found the location of the
tunnel entrance. That’s when the fun and games will really
start.” Dillon said.
“We’ll see, Mr Dillon.” He smiled. “But, this is of
small consequence to me. And I would still be honoured,
if at least we can eat together like civilised men.” Malakoff
said as he gestured towards the dining room.

The Porsche Carerra, slowed to a halt, and parked
across the gateway of a field. Kurt, sitting behind the wheel
of the silver coloured car, had a clear view of the old granite
stone cottage opposite. He remained inside the car, until he
was absolutely sure that Albert Bishop was at home.

Satisfied that Bishop was there. He casually walked
across the lane to the front gate. Before pushing it open, he
stood for a moment, taking in the splendid isolation of the
place. He knocked loudly on the front door, and then waited
on the step, for what seemed like minutes. An elderly man
eventually appeared from around the rear of the building,
carrying a wicker basket full of freshly picked apples. On
seeing the big German, he started along the gravel path
towards him.

“No good knocking on the door like that. I’ve been
out the back, at the bottom of the garden, you know?” Albert
Bishop was an upright, dapper looking man, somewhere
around seventy with thick cropped silver coloured hair,
that stood up on end. He was slim for his age, dressed in
tan coloured corduroy trousers, and a jacket, that had seen
better days with leather patches on both elbows. The check
shirt that he wore was buttoned at the collar, and his tie had
a tight Windsor knot in it.

“If you’re selling something then you can be on your
way, I’m not interested.” Albert said his voice was both
polite, and firm.

“Are you Albert Bishop?”
“Yes, I’m Albert Bishop. Who wants to know?”
“My name is Mayer; I’m a writer researching a novel.

Please accept my apologies for disturbing you like this. But,
can you please tell me if your parents kept house, here on
the island for a Lord Asquith?” Kurt asked.

“My God, I haven’t heard that name spoken in over
sixty years. And now, you’re the second person to ask me
this very question today.”

Asquith?” Kurt’s voice was edgy.
“No, he only wanted to know about the house that
he owned, here on the island.” Albert stared momentarily,
at the big blond haired German, who was standing before
him. And then added, “He was a nice polite young man.”
“So tell me. What did this nice young Englishman,
want to know?” Kurt sneered. This was all it took for
Albert to recognise that something was not quite right with
the big German.
Albert Bishop began to feel uncomfortable. “Well, let
me see now,” beads of sweat began to break out on the old
man’s forehead. “He simply wanted to know if the Nazis
had used the house during the time they were here, and
whether any high ranking officers had ever stayed there. But
I’m going to tell you, like I told him. I really can’t remember
I was only five years old at the time.”
“What else did you tell him, old man?” Kurt asked
abruptly. He took a step forward.
“That was it, that’s all he asked, honest. Said, he had
a helicopter waiting for him at the airport.” Bishop dabbed
at the sweat on his forehead with a white handkerchief he’d
taken from the inside pocket of his jacket.
Kurt looked menacing, standing larger than life in the
fading light of the evening, and Albert Bishop backed away
up the path. “I don’t know what your game is. But, you’d
better leave now. You see, I’ve got my son and daughter
in law coming for supper. They’ll be here in a minute. So
you’d better be on your way.”
He dropped the basket on to the path, apples spilled
across the gravel. Albert Bishop turned and hurried around
to the rear of the cottage. He went through the open French
doors at almost a run, tripped on the threshold, and went
sprawling across the polished wood floor on his hands and
knees. Hearing the German’s footsteps outside on the gravel.
Albert scrabbled back up onto his feet and quickly moved
back to the French doors that he’d just come through,
and locked them. As he turned the key to lock them, Kurt
appeared outside.
He was enjoying seeing the old man frightened. It
was one of his passions, inflicting fear and ultimately pain
on anyone, man or woman, who was unfortunate enough
to be the focus of his attention. He was annoyed and angry
with himself that Albert Bishop had seen through him. But
that really didn’t matter now, because he wasn’t in any
hurry, he thought. From his jacket pocket, he pulled out a
pair of fine hand made Italian gloves. The feel of the fine
leather, lightly brushing over his skin never failed to excite
him as he pulled them on.
The wooden doors were old, and they gave in easily
after the first good shove. And then the next moment, the
German was standing in Albert Bishop’s back living room.
He’d hurried through the cottage, and up to his
bedroom. Had locked the door, and was dialling 999, when
he heard the heavy footsteps climbing the stairs. The next
moment the door burst off its hinges, and Kurt was stood
in the open doorway. Albert Bishop froze with fear, tears
started to well up in his eyes, and then he wet himself.
The German calmly walked over to where Albert was
sitting on the side of the bed, and took the phone out of the
old man’s hand. He put it to his ear, and could hear a male
operator asking which emergency service was required. His
eyes never left Albert as he spoke into the phone.
“Hello operator. Apologies, but there is no emergency.
Sorry to waste your time.” Kurt said, calmly. And then put
the telephone back on to its cradle.
Turning, he looked down at Albert, and said. “You’re
a very foolish old man, you know? Now, tell me. What else
did you tell the Englishman?”
“Nothing, I swear to you. Now please, will you leave
me alone?”
“Unfortunately for you, old man, I don’t believe
you.” And he slapped Albert, hard across the face with the
back of his gloved hand.
“Look, whoever you are. Your bully boy tactics
don’t frighten me.”
“Is that so?” He grabbed hold of Albert’s jacket
collar, and in one easy movement, hauled him up onto his
feet. The German immediately noticed with disgust, the
stain on the front of the old man’s trousers, as well as the
damp patch on the bed cover where he’d been sitting.
Albert was pushed out of his bedroom, and onto the
landing.
“Stand over there, you old fool.” Kurt said coldly,
and pointed to the top of the staircase.
Albert looked at him with uncertainty, and
foreboding. But, after a brief moment, did as he was
ordered, and stood where the German had pointed.
Kurt stood watching with obvious satisfaction,
at the torment he was inflicting. He slowly paced up and
down the narrow landing, and eventually said, “This is
your last chance, Mr Bishop. Tell me what else you told the
Englishman, and I’ll be on my way.” Kurt moved closer to
where Albert was standing.
“I’ve already told you, nothing else was said. Now
why don’t you believe me? What is this all about anyway? I
want you to leave now, leave me in peace. I promise you, I’ll
not going running to the police.” Tears started to roll down
over Albert’s ruddy cheeks, and then his whole body started
to shake with his pitiful sobbing.
The German, put a hand on the back of his neck, and
squeezed. “Tell me what you said, you old fool!”
“Ahh, that’s hurting. I only said the things that I’ve
already told you. Now please let me go!”
He released his grip on the old man’s neck, and then
patted his shoulder. “Do you know, Mr Bishop? I believe
you’re telling the truth.”
Kurt slid his left arm across Albert’s throat. Placed
his right hand over the top of his head, and twisted it around
in one smooth motion. Breaking the neck so cleanly that the
old man was dead in an instant.
Kurt released his grip as the body went limp. The legs
instantly buckled, and the body fell and tumbled awkwardly
down to the bottom of the stairs. After a moment, he calmly
walked down, and without hurry studied the scene that he’d
created. Making absolutely sure, that it looked as if the old
man had accidentally fallen.
Very quickly, he went back through the cottage,
ensuring along the way, that there was nothing out of place.
He left through the French doors again, and then walked
back to where the Porsche was parked. He glanced back at
the granite building, before getting into the sports car and
slowly driving off down the lane. Ten minutes later, he’d
reached St. Helier and the car park where Vince had left
the Range Rover. He parked the Porsche next to the luxury
4x4, and sat looking at it for quite some time.